Arrakeen Ice
by AsianScaper
Summary: A rather odd continuation for "Beneath the Dunes" at the request of my friend trin_chardin. A stranger with the power of poetry reveals the identity of the dark hooded man haunting Muad'dib's visions.


  
**Title:** _Arrakeen Ice_   
**Author/s:** Larq, al'Laine, and AsianScaper   
**Summary:** A rather odd continuation for "Beneath the Dunes" at the request of my friend trin_chardin. A stranger with the power of poetry reveals the identity of the dark hooded man haunting Muad'dib's visions.   
**Disclaimer:** Arrakis and its contents are property of Frank Herbert. The Arrakeen poem, however, is mine.   
**Rating:** G   
**Category:** Drama   
**Feedback:** Send your criticism, comments, or insights to larq003@hotmail.com or to allaine003@hotmail.com.   
**Archiving:** You may put it anywhere you wish but be sure to get my permission first or I'll bite your head off.   
**Spoilers:** None   
**Dedication:** Oh, and this is for Kate. Happy Birthday! Also, since trin_chardin has been showering me with praise, this is for you too, gurl. I hope you love it.   
**Author's Note:** I'm going to warn you. This was truly done in a hurry so tell me if you see mistakes. If you can make an interpretation, I'd love to hear it. I hope this gives more meaning to "Beneath the Dunes".

__________

Pain was a memory that bit at the flesh of his mind. It simpered at the corners of his memory and shed tears that were not of the sea's mold and texture but were rivulets of ruby diamonds. Silently, they marked the alleys of sand and brushed at the luster of the sun that pleaded with miserable sighs.

"Wake, Usul! Stilgar has arrived." The voice crawled blindly to the path of his consciousness and pushed at the pillars of his sleep. "Usul. Wake up…"

The mist within the plains of his mind existed only behind the blanket of his eyes and it lifted slowly, taking with it the sounds of feet grinding against sand and the feel of dry air licking his skin.

Someone's soft hand placed blossoms on his forehead as it caressed the creases of worry and gently clasped the rising animosity to steal it from his eyes.

"Usul," Chani whispered. "Wake, Muad'dib. The messengers from Al Hassan have arrived."

Blue upon blue awoke and lifted its hands from beyond the blanket of sleep. Paul Muad'dib's eyes were such that they saw beyond the air and found the foulness drifting in it. It was such that he glanced at his love and found the purity beyond the skies above him. There was no hypocrite lurking at the corner of her sight, nor was there a curved knife.

…A knife…silver, like the moon…

"What is it, Chani?" he asked her, taking her hand from his face and kissing it with the reverence of a man before the altar of his god.

She smiled gently, the curved lips filled with tenderness. "I have told you thrice, Muad'dib. I insisted that you not be disturbed. You had trouble sleeping but they insisted that you had…ordered them to do so." Her face twisted slightly in disapproval but the laughter was in her eyes. "You must go. Stilgar is waiting."

He shoved the sheet from his body, touching his face and realizing the jutting angles of the hardened Atreides duke. Sighing in a fleeting lament for the loss of his innocence, he rose from the bed and muttered his thanks as Chani pulled a robe over his lean body. The material was such that it protected one from the harsh conditions of a scorching sun and a hungry wind. Donning his stillsuit and carefully clasping the cloak to swallow his body, Paul Muad'dib acknowledged the sharp smell of unwashed bodies. This was the first sign of the seeming ancient, uncivilized manner by which he had lived but of which he cherished despite its unpleasantness.

He welcomed the sounds of the water seller and the numerous groans of thirst. He had lived it, after all, and he cannot condemn his own people for their plight.

Walking in a dignified stride with Chani by his side, he passed the numerous sapphire windows of the soul of his Fremen with a mere nod. They were blue within blue, no whites, and they stared with the effervescence of a different earth. The spice danced its caper within their eyes in the mocking voice of a violent muse.

"Muad'dib," they said, moving those thirsty lips in solemn benediction and the spice stared at him, whispering elegies.

A black figure was walking through the growing crowd and the glint of a silver dagger worried his sight. Paul moved to intercept it but a voice shouted from above the cavern of rock and stone. 

"Muad'dib!" Paul Muad'dib was forced to look at the Fremen who had shouted from the ledge.

It was Stilgar; angry with the casualty by which Paul had responded to his plea, his hair in disarray at the zephyr rising within. "The Maker has been summoned and the council is waiting!"

Paul turned back to find the figure gone…

…And the footsteps imprinted upon sand disappearing as the breeze that brushed at his ear shoved the sands with the expertise of a mother.

"Usul?"

"Nothing, Chani. I saw him again."

The Fremen woman grabbed at the sleeve on his elbow, bringing him to a halt as a detachment of Fedaykin, all dressed in stillsuits with their masks already hiding the butchers lurking at the corner of their sight, hurried to his side. "Have you consulted your mother about this? She seems to know who this vision is."

"She will not tell me. The woman is afraid of my visions more than she is of me."

Chani sighed in acquiescence and overtook him. Taking his hand, she pulled him along until the formations widened to reveal one of the many entrances in Sietch Tabr.

Light peered past the chasm, stroking the sands as they glittered under her touch. As Paul stepped into the heat of the sun, the desert glared at him with such anger that spiked gauntlets pierced his eyes. Squinting, the sand beneath him shifted slightly as he walked. Fondling the tufts of hair that lay exposed to the elements, the wind whispered death into his ear and he was forced to listen for the heat within it scratched their scrawny fingers against his face, bidding him listen to their harps.

Chani pulled the hood of her cloak over her head just as the Fremen on the nearest dune skillfully planted thumpers to summon a worm of the desert. Paul placed the mask over his mouth and breathed in the stale air of his stillsuit. Gently bringing a tube to his lips, he sipped at the recycled water from his body and did not bother to grimace. He had been accustomed to the barbarous practices of his Fremen long before he had joined their ranks as their leader.

Stilgar, his eyes darting from one end of the dune to another, arrived with hooks. He handed two of them to Muad'dib and grimly stepped away to oversee the work being done.

Chani was hugging herself, glancing with a hidden look at his direction. Within the backdrop of the continuous _thump, thump_ of the machinery, Paul did not have to see that she was wishing him well with a tiny smile. He took her hand, squeezed it and lingered for a while before the rumbling sound of a distant disturbance shook the sand beneath them and invited awe to step cautiously with winged feet.

The sun had clambered against the mounts of the heavens and was now reaching its zenith.

"Must you ride at this time?" a new voice mused behind them.

Stilgar was indignant. "There is no time, Reverend Mother."

"So little time…mother." Paul risked a backward glance over his shoulder. Jessica had her features hidden under a large hood and only her hands were exposed to the wind. It was understood, though, that she was standing with the arrogance of a Bene Gesserit witch.

"I wish you well, then." Jessica peered silently at her son and felt the growing anticipation in him. She had known this Paul even before he became Muad'dib yet now, he stood in a manner that escaped her. He held Chani's hands like a talisman and it was all Jessica could do to stop herself from crossing the space between them, just as the maker roared in the distance. "Take heart, son," she decided, prudence grasping the better side of her will. "Visions will never touch you unless you touch them."

The boy Paul sighed and despite the crimes his mother had endured for his own demise, he stepped from the grasp of his love and took the hooded face within his hands. He pushed the hood away to stare into the blue within blue eyes of his mother and the oval face that echoed his own features. With the strong gaze of his father's eyes, once emerald like his mother before the spice had feasted on its verdant pastures, he consumed the cerulean spheres and found the lingering guilt and deceit she had for all, except for herself.

The maker had burst from the sand and the wind that blew had the strong smell of cinnamon.

Kissing his mother's forehead with a love he had never lost but had wisely restrained, he placed his head on her shoulder, embracing her lightly. Her hair tickled his cheek and he could smell roses in her hair.

"Fare thee well, mother. Your sympathies are well met." There was a pause and the ground trembled with the travels of a god. "But our paths have crossed for far too long."

Pulling away, noticing the rather sad way Jessica faltered, he smiled ruefully. But Jessica was Bene Gesserit and the vicious woman beneath the robes straightened. She walked away silently, neither saying words nor recognizing his. To look back at her flesh and blood would be an offense and she disappeared into the sietch.

Again, the ground trembled in a tumultuous show of malfeasance as the maker's shining rings emerged from the sand.

The worm was heading straight for them and gripping his hooks like swords to ward off the beast, Paul Muad'dib's mind was left with nothing more than the ebony figure beneath the dunes. Its cloak billowed in the wind, encompassing the light behind him; its crescent knife shining with the cruelty of Neptune's moon-kissed waters.

Then, there was the chant a Fremen was muttering…

  
_Fair grains of tasteless earth abound to flaxen height   
Soft sighs of wind stir dulled ridges of arrant sight   
These golden snakes, when caressed, whisper mute delight   
Fitting of wat'ry dirges sung in dismal night_

…Diving into the darkness below the hot sands, the maker crossed a dune that by now was being blown by a furious wind. The parapet of golden earth seemed to tower in its arrogance.

The Fremen gathered. The roar of the maker was deafening, its passage showering the party with the strong scent of cinnamon and slightly yet, of death. But the lone Fremen, his eyes shifting to indigo as he turned, was reciting a poem through his lips and Paul could read it despite the rising fog of sand and dirt….

  
_Martyr's crimson crafts purge in brief oblivion   
Myriad dirt claimed by claws of the lurid lion   
Aptly arched in putrid plight, a dim Orion   
Scourging equine creatures of our divine Zion_

…Paul lifted his hooks, his breathe smothered with the smell of the spice just as the maker emerged, its rings seducing him to bury his hooks within. With one hook, he grappled for a handhold and the sensitive inner core of the ring lay uncovered from the leathery, outer layer. The worm turned to protect itself.

Paul heard the chanting Fremen behind him, who skillfully climbed the worm, his hands grasping ever so slightly with the reverence of a lover's kiss…

  
_Bizarre psalms to rigid souls haunt the stolen lute   
Broken palms strew the lea of the celestial the flute   
Not pearls from Elysium eyes heal the wand'ring mute   
From basins of drown'd Pluto and the maimed dispute_

It was Paul Muad'dib who stood with both hooks buried within the maker's rings and at once, it was reminiscent of the way his very hands held fate. Life and death shuddered below him and the maker bellowed another bout of spice into the air. Stilgar followed suit and behind him were the Fedaykin, their cloaks howling against the gusts. These silent guardians lurched with the movement of the maker.

Paul could see the passing breaths of sand around him, shimmering with their benign jewelry. Lacing their monumental faces with moonstones and blessing the worm's path.

Still, the Fremen was chanting quietly to himself… 

  
_Innocence, taste of sanguine nectar daily made   
Seduced by glint of bees' eyes, dismal hue of shade   
Saccharine in which starved tongues of wickedness wade   
That Jupiter's youth, winged message of hopes, doth fade_

Paul whispered silently to Stilgar, "What poem does that Fremen recite?"

Stilgar's chuckle raked fluidly against Paul's mind. Now, though, only the wails of passing breezes graced his ears. The Fremen's melodic voice had stopped but the poem was incomplete in its obeisance to the deprivation of integrity.

"Chonan prays to the gods every time he mounts a maker, Muad'dib." 

Stilgar scratched his chin thoughtfully when Paul muttered softly, "Can you bring him to me?"

Chonan was placed before Muad'dib even as the worm trembled in deference. Surprisingly, instead of reverence painted plainly on his face like it did on his kin, there was but respect and nothing else.

"How does your poem end, man?"

Chonan was taken aback. "You have been listening, Muad'dib?"

"It is a disease that plagues our people, Chonan, and I wish to hear them speak."

The Fremen's voice was mellifluous despite of years in misuse from the desert and the recitation of his poem was the answer to Paul's stinging remark…

  
_Light on light that kisses stained roses moist in dew   
Rivulets adorned in dancing diamond hue   
Permeated breaths to muttering tongues construe   
The loss of veils benign; moaning requiems to rue_

"Hope, Muad'dib," Chonan whispered.

Paul stared on, unmoving, yet the poem had woven a quilt of possibilities and had sung sweet ballads into his ear. Honey embellished his tongue and the taste of it reminded him of the sweet waters of his home, Caladan. "Who taught this poem to you?"

"Death, Muad'dib. He met me beneath the dunes and sang of the blight that summoned all to his gate."

Ebony shafts about a man danced beneath the dunes…the alluring crescent knife peeking from the shadows; silvery, like the moon…haunted, like Death's sickle.

Death was beyond his grasp and him, within Death's. Pale fingers touched his face and the curved bow of the sickle awaited beneath the sands.

Waiting…waiting…

_A fate I cannot touch..._The whisper was Paul's and it flew from the depths of his heart._...a man I can only see..._

__________

**-The End-**


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